“What do you think Mme Parent is covering up?” Verlaque asked, removing his reading glasses and setting them and his book on the bedside table.
Marine bit her lip. “I don’t know if she’s protecting Agathe or her sister. By the way, she didn’t mention that her sister was Valère’s secretary for years. And I didn’t bring it up. There seems to be this weird silence.”
Verlaque said, “You’re right, that’s very odd.”
“Mme Parent didn’t speak well of Valère.”
Verlaque turned to face his wife. “He and Agathe did argue that day, on the boat,” he said. He crossed his arms and looked at his beloved Pierre Soulages, the painting’s textured blackness dominating the room. “But Valère speaks so kindly of Agathe, with real love in his eyes.”
“Now you’re the one who sounds like a Hollywood movie,” Marine said. “A schmaltzy love story.”
Verlaque laughed. “Touché,” he said. “But I still think that Pelloquin may have purposely left all that equipment snarled on the boat. I’m going to call Daniel de Rudder tomorrow morning.”
“I just don’t know,” Marine said, as if she hadn’t heard her husband. “Mme Parent’s protecting Ursule and Agathe. And despite the fact that you’ve become chums with Valère, I don’t think he’s trustworthy. He’s a phony for one thing. Right?”
“That’s your opinion,” Verlaque said. “I still can’t believe that Valère didn’t write those wonderful books.”
Marine sighed. “I can’t either. Once you fall in love with a book, it’s hard to separate it from the author. But right now, cher Monsieur le Juge, my instincts point to Agathe.” She switched off the bedside lamp, then curled up beside her husband.
* * *
The next morning, Verlaque walked down rue Gaston de Saporta, taking a roundabout route to the Palais de Justice because he felt like getting a strong espresso from the coffee roaster’s on place Richelme. He knew he would probably end up in a few tourists’ photographs: walking under the Gothic arch of the tall, square clock tower, a man of medium height, wearing a mustard-colored linen suit with a blue shirt—wide shouldered and ample bellied, with messy, thick gray-and-black hair, and crooked nose. That’s all they would know about the stranger in their photograph, once they got back to Kansas or Amsterdam or Tokyo.
He slowed down in front of the town hall and, hands in his pockets, looked up at its facade. A voice behind him said, “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît.” He turned around and saw a young couple, perhaps in their early twenties.
“You’d like me to take your photograph?” Verlaque asked in English.
“Oh yes, please,” the woman answered, smiling and offering her phone.
“Italian?” Verlaque asked.
“Venetian,” the man said, sticking his chest out in such a way that Verlaque almost laughed out loud.
“How lucky,” Verlaque replied. The couple stood in front of the honey-colored town hall, and Verlaque took two photographs. They thanked him and walked on, probably on their way to the cathedral. He turned around and again looked at the facade of the three-story town hall, lit up in the morning sun. He could see why the Italians—no, Venetians—wanted their picture taken there. It was at once majestic and intimate. Above the wide entryway, where on Saturdays newly married couples streamed out after their obligatory state wedding, were medallions bearing not the usual three inscriptions, but five. Verlaque had never noticed them before. Liberté, égalité, and fraternité were joined by two newcomers: générosité and probité. These two additions were more personal than the other three. Generosity was one of Verlaque’s own favorite traits, inherited from his paternal grandparents Charles and Emmeline. Their homes in Paris and Normandy were always open to family, neighbors, friends, and colleagues. “If I was down to my last shilling, I’d still throw a party,” Emmeline used to say to her grandsons in her educated London accent. Verlaque realized that generosity was something important to all his friends, for those who were stingy, or “mean” as Emmeline used to say, were soon struck from his list of acquaintances. A colleague once told him about a Christmas he had spent in America. Friends of friends were throwing a party. They were well off and living in a big house whose mortgage, bragged the husband, was paid off, but written on the invitations was “BYOB.” The colleague kept the invitation as a souvenir, and when he got back passed the letter around the Palais de Justice. His Aixois coworkers tried to guess what the acronym could possibly mean. “Bring your own bottle!” the young law clerk had to explain. “Bottle of what?” a secretary asked. People looked at each other, bewildered. “Wine or whatever,” he went on. “I didn’t know what it meant, either, and arrived bearing only flowers and expensive Parisian chocolates. So I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of tap water. I refused to drink alcohol that night. For the first time in my life, I was at a party where I drank water.”
Verlaque smiled, fondly remembering the young clerk, who had since moved to another city. He looked up at probité, thinking of his conversation with Marine the previous evening. Honesty was Marine’s paramount trait. She was the most honest person he had ever met. He walked on, his hands in his pockets, thinking of Barbier. The snapshots of him with his arms around actresses and rock stars. The numerous television appearances. Verlaque walked into the coffee-roasting house and said hello to the three women who had worked there as long as he could remember. He leaned against the counter and ordered an Italian, thinking about Valère as he watched one of the women make his coffee and simultaneously load the dishwasher. How could Valère have faked his way all that time? Why hadn’t the journalists and critics caught on? Verlaque thanked the woman for his coffee and, tapping a sugar packet on the counter and then opening it, poured half in. Two men at the opposite end of the counter joked with the women, their voices and laughter loud, ringing out over the piercing noise of the grinder. Verlaque then realized that Barbier always laughed and joked in the same way. It was one of the reasons he was so loved, and such a popular guest on literary talk shows. The nation’s favorite writer was a cutup, a joker. What a good way to disguise the fact that you weren’t as profound as you sounded in your books.
Fifteen minutes later Verlaque was at his desk, having firmly closed the door to his office. He picked up the telephone and called Daniel de Rudder. “I hope it isn’t too early,” Verlaque said.
“Are you joking?” Rudder asked. “I’ve been up for hours. What else am I supposed to do? So, what have you come up with?”
“I had a good look at the photographs of the boat, taken by the police just after Agathe’s disappearance.”
“And?”
“The mess . . . From all accounts, Pelloquin was a good sailor, maniacally so, and a good sailor doesn’t leave the bow in that kind of state.”
“Hmm.”
Verlaque could tell that Rudder was smiling on the other end of the phone. “The anchor wasn’t even in the well, which means Pelloquin may have set Agathe up—”
“Or . . .”
“Or wanted someone else to trip?” Verlaque winced, embarrassed to sound unsure to his former teacher.
“Did you go through the records?” Rudder asked.
“Certainly,” Verlaque said. “Everyone on board had a clean history. As you know, Agathe and Valère Barbier argued that day, and so did Agathe and Pelloquin. But that doesn’t tell us much. My wife was in Paris yesterday, at Les Loges—”
“Oh really?” Rudder asked. He began to cough, and Verlaque waited until the coughing subsided.
“Yes, an old schoolmate of hers is now assistant director. Marine, my wife, looked at Agathe’s records and had a very informative meeting with the current directrice.”
“And?”
“A few oddities,” Verlaque said. “Agathe was a talented writer, and won an award for an essay with the same title as Valère Barbier’s first novel.”
“Rue Faubour
g?”
“Exactly.”
“She gave him the title, most likely.”
“That’s what I think,” Verlaque said. “But my wife thinks otherwise.”
“Hogwash—although . . . if Agathe did help write the books, that would give Valère Barbier a nice motive for killing her.”
“Or Alphonse Pelloquin,” Verlaque said. “He must have made millions off of Barbier’s books. Speaking of Pelloquin, I have an acquaintance who saw Alphonse and Agathe together in a café in the 6th more than once.”
“Now you’re getting warm. Do you not find it interesting that her body was never found, despite the fact that she fell off the boat relatively close to Nice? I think you should—” Rudder began to cough again, and Verlaque held the telephone away from his ear.
“Are you all right?” Verlaque asked once the noise had stopped.
He heard some shuffling noises and a woman came on the telephone. “Judge Verlaque?” she asked. “I’m Daphné de Rudder. I know that my father-in-law has been calling you.”
“Yes. Is Daniel okay?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “He just needs to rest right now. He was up far too early this morning.” Verlaque could hear Rudder arguing in the background.
“I understand,” Verlaque said. “And thank you for taking such good care of Daniel.” As he hung up, someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”
Bruno Paulik walked in, shook hands, went to the bright-red espresso machine, and turned it on. “Coffee?” Paulik asked.
Verlaque shook his head. “I’ve had two already. Do you think it odd that Agathe Barbier’s body was never recovered?”
Paulik shrugged. “Not really. Anything can happen in the sea. There are sharks out there.”
“Nice. But then an arm or a leg would turn up, no?”
“Now you’re the one being morbid. Are you thinking she planned her accident and is still wandering around?” The espresso machine’s red light went out, signaling it was ready, and Paulik made coffee. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding up his demitasse.
“Okay, go ahead and make me one,” Verlaque said, smiling.
“You’re a pushover.” Paulik made another espresso. “Faking a death has always seemed far too unreal to me,” he said, handing Verlaque a demitasse and sitting down across from him. “It can hardly be worth all the fuss. Why?”
“Revenge. She’s frightening Valère. Trying to drive him mad.”
“But for what?”
Verlaque filled Paulik in on Marine’s discovery. “Plus, my old law professor seems to think that Agathe may have staged her own death.”
Paulik listened with an open mouth. “This is beginning to sound like a novel.”
“Exactly,” Verlaque said, thinking of Rebecca.
“But what if,” Paulik suggested, “Valère Barbier is simply imagining these ghosts? What if it’s just an old house making weird noises at night, and Valère really did write those great books all on his own?” He put his right hand on his heart. “Because I’m having a very hard time believing otherwise. An Honorable Man? The Receptionist? Red Earth? Not written by our national hero? What if Agathe Barbier did simply fall off a boat?”
“For an opera lover, you really are very unimaginative.”
* * *
Verlaque ran into their apartment and emptied his pockets, setting his wallet and cell phone on the kitchen counter. It was still warm out, nearly 30°C, he suspected, and on the walk home he had thought about how good a shower would feel. But he was too excited. “Marine!” he hollered.
“What?” she called from the mezzanine. “You’re making so much noise down there!”
“Come down!” he cried.
“Oh, brother,” Marine mumbled, turning off her laptop. She had been staring at the same sentence for over half an hour; it was time to stop. She could hear her husband opening the refrigerator and banging the kitchen cupboards.
“White?” he called as she walked down the metal staircase she had always thought too contemporary and masculine for such an old apartment.
“Yes, please,” she said, walking into the kitchen and hugging Verlaque. “You’re warm.”
“And sweaty,” he said. “Sorry. I’m going to dive into the shower before dinner. Too bad we can’t fit a lap pool on the terrace. But first,” he said, pouring them each a glass of white burgundy, “I want to talk about Valère.”
“Santé,” Marine said, tapping her glass to her husband’s then taking a sip. “Did you speak to Daniel de Rudder?”
“Yes, and he’s put an idea in my head,” Verlaque said. “I think Agathe is still alive.”
Marine tried not to laugh. She walked around their small but efficient kitchen and sipped more wine. “And she’s trying to frighten Valère?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s a problem with that theory,” she said.
“What?”
“Erwan. She’d want to be with her son, no?”
“Maybe Erwan knows. Perhaps they see each other secretly.”
“For twenty-two years? And,” Marine said, her face getting flushed from the heat and wine, “if Agathe wrote the great books, wouldn’t she still be writing, or at least making pots?”
Verlaque grinned. “That’s why I ran up the stairs and put my shower on hold.”
“You ran up four flights of stairs?”
“I paused on the second-floor landing. Just be quiet and listen.”
“You’re such a jerk,” Marine said, laughing.
“Claude Petitjean.”
“I gave it back to Sylvie,” Marine asked. “Sorry.”
“I’ll buy it—don’t worry. Did you read Le Monde’s literary section last weekend?”
Marine set her empty glass on the counter and stared at her husband.
Verlaque continued: “Petitjean has published five books, the first four were critically acclaimed but little read, and now this one—”
“A huge success,” Marine cut in, “despite the author refusing to do interviews or even release his or her photograph. Claude can be either male or female.”
“And guess when Claude Petitjean’s first novel was published?”
“Just after Agathe’s death?” Marine asked.
“In 1990.”
Verlaque’s cell phone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at the caller. “Merde. It’s Jacob from the club. He never calls. Do you mind if I answer?”
“Go ahead. Tell him I say hello. I’ll start preparing dinner.”
Verlaque picked up the phone and took it into the living room. Marine opened the refrigerator and took out a bunch of arugula she’d bought at the market that morning. Digging into the back of the fridge, she found a bag of pine nuts, a chunk of Parmesan they’d brought back from their most recent trip to Liguria, and some herbed pancetta from her butcher. She’d make linguini, using these ingredients cooked in chicken broth.
Ten minutes later Verlaque came back into the kitchen and set his phone back on the counter, plugging it in to charge.
Marine was pacing back and forth. “Something kept bothering me when I was reading the Petitjean.”
Verlaque opened the fridge, grabbed the wine, and refilled their glasses. “Oh yeah?”
“Do you remember me telling you what it was about?”
Verlaque nodded. “Two kids who grew up on the same street in Paris get back in touch in their seventies.” He looked at Marine. “Of course . . . It reminded you of Valère and—”
“Michèle Baudouin.”
Verlaque walked over to Marine and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead. “I hope we’re wrong about this. I don’t like impostors.”
“I agree.” Marine turned to stir the pasta. “Why did Jacob call?” she wondered. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“They
’re moving to London.”
“Really? Why?”
“Lower taxes,” Verlaque replied.
Marine sighed. “The older I get, the more socialist I become.”
“That’s the opposite of what Churchill said naturally happens to us with age,” Verlaque said. “But I agree.”
Verlaque’s answer surprised Marine, but she was too hungry to talk politics. “He called to tell you about the move?”
“Yes, and to tell me that he’s selling his house,” Verlaque said. “And he’d rather not go through an agent. We have first dibs.”
* * *
As Antoine Verlaque and Marine Bonnet were eating dinner on the terrace and celebrating the idea of living in Jacob’s house with a bottle of champagne that went surprisingly well with the pasta, Bruno Paulik was sitting in Gaston Bressey’s brightly lit kitchen. He had run into Gaston while buying bread and joked that he was an orphan that night, as his wife and daughter were eating in Aix with his wife’s sister. Gaston immediately invited Paulik to dinner, adding that, given the warm weather, he would make pasta with salmon. Paulik gladly accepted and bought an apple tart from the boulangère, one with a fine crust and thinly sliced apples arranged in a pinwheel pattern. Paulik went home to have a quick shower, wishing as he did that they had the money to build a swimming pool, and arrived at Gaston’s at eight o’clock sharp, with the tart and a bottle of chilled rosé cradled in his arms.
Paulik had to sit at an angle, as his legs would not fit under the small wooden table. He watched Gaston cook as he sipped Hélène’s rosé—she sold so much she could hardly keep up with the demand. Gaston was bent over the counter, cutting leeks, and Paulik imagined the counters here were several inches lower than at his house. Gaston’s wife must have been barely five feet tall. The old man took his time, slowly stirring chopped leeks and garlic in butter and olive oil while they chatted. Paulik asked Gaston about the village over the years, and his job working for the SNCF. Gaston replied with insight and thoughtfulness. Much the way he cooked, thought Paulik. Gaston carefully removed thyme leaves from their woody stalks and added them to the leeks. Paulik could smell it from where he was sitting: lemon thyme, which grew in low bunches along the driveway.
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 23